He Wept
by I-Swear-I-Am-Infinite
Summary: 'This was him kissing her, and this was him not stopping. And this was her, realizing that any and every kiss after this- from anyone else- would mean absolutely nothing.' Irene loved Sherlock. Could it really be that he didn't love her back?


**Hello. **

**I've been working on a Sherlock/Irene story (sort of), and with that sort of idea in mind I wrote this. **

**I'm not quite sure why exactly I'm uploading it…I guess I just feel like I should upload **_**something**_**, and this seems pretty decent to me. When I get around to finishing/uploading the aforementioned Sherlock/Irene story, this will probably make more sense…I may even remove it if it does end up in the actual story. **

**Anyway, please do review if you feel so inclined, to let me know if it's bad/good/doesn't make sense at all. Okay bye. **

Agony and fury fought within Irene, both equaled yet in some way caused by one another.

Irene was never broken. More important than that- no one ever _broke her_. Yet here she was, crying because of a boy. A stupid, infuriating, cruel boy. It angered her beyond reason that Sherlock was able to play with her in whatever way he pleased, that he was able to make her have such powerful, rare feelings for someone- him. Unbeknownst to her, he had gotten past her thick outer shell, and had twisted her heart until it was mangled and incomplete.

She was _the woman_, her tears, her pain- these was inexcusable. But there, there was the sadness. That underneath it all, she loved that idiot, and he knew it, and he didn't care. He made a mockery out of her love, and he just didn't care. About her, about them, about anything.

Worst of all, this all had to happen in front of him. As she sat there on the couch, she could not help but cry. He played his violin facing the window, away from her- thank goodness. He was absorbed in his music, away from the world, but he was still in the same room. And she was crying about him.

Irene was so engaged in the troubling emotions within her that she didn't even notice that the beautiful music had stopped. And then suddenly he was before her, standing there like a hunter over a prize buck he'd just killed. Irene didn't dare look up, didn't wipe away her tears. It was too late anyway. She glared at nothing in particular away from him.

Then he lowered himself to her level, his impassive face barely inches from hers. "What are you crying about? Hm?" He asked softly, gently tipping up Irene's chin. She didn't respond, only locked her jaw. Then Sherlock's long violinist's fingers swept her cheek gently, removing the tears. Irene's gaze flicked to Sherlock's. His eyes were focused on hers, but she could see nothing there. They were as calculating as ever.

His hand gently cupped her face, and she couldn't help but lean into it. "Oh, Irene." He murmured, and Irene's eyes widened. Now there was a change. He had actually sounded…wistful. And there- in his eyes- a chink in his armor. Something, a flicker, a feeling. She longed to lean in, to punctuate this rare show of emotion with a kiss, to be able to inhale him, to taste his thoughts on her lips.

But she knew that she couldn't do that, not this time. She had to know if any of this meant something to him.

"Sherlock?" Irene murmured, as the space between them slowly melted away. And then his lips ghosted against hers, like the stroke of a paintbrush. Somehow, this seemed like the most intimate thing Irene had ever experienced. This seemed deliberate. This was him, kissing her, and this was him, not stopping. And this was her, realizing that any and every kiss after this from anyone else would mean absolutely nothing.

Their kiss grew, and while one hand he kept on her face, the other snagged her hand and pulled Irene to her feet, kiss unbroken. Sherlock's hand then moved to her waist, pulling her even closer. Irene's hands curled around his neck, into his hair, stroked his face.

Irene breathed his name as their lips broke apart for the smallest of seconds, before their lips met again, a shorter, sweeter kiss. Then Irene caught his face in her hands, and studied him. Lipstick smeared across his lips. Pupils dilated. Mouth slightly upturned in the smallest of smiles. And there it was- love.

She could see it there, behind the layers of cynicism and detachment and pain and loneliness in his eyes. It was undeniable, and the sight of it made fresh tears color Irene's face, though these were a different sort than before. She practically crushed her face to his again, unsure how to properly convey her relief, her appreciation, her joy, but most of all, her reciprocation of the feeling.

..

John considered the moment silently from the doorway. Tangled in each other's embrace were the two most manipulative, cold, seemingly emotionless and loveless people he knew, besides perhaps Mycroft. And there they were, trapped together in a moment of tender vulnerability. Sherlock and Irene. Of course. John turned and left with a smile, knowing of no better pair.

..

Sherlock was the one to pull back first, and for a brief moment Irene was worried he would turn away entirely. But he just ducked his head, burying his face in her neck and hugging her tightly. Irene gazed at him in awe, disbelief.

For he- the man who thought of love and caring as disadvantages, who had played with her heart countless times, who had convinced everyone he had no heart at all- as he stood in Irene's embrace, his shoulders shook, and he wept as she held him.


End file.
